


Flicker

by Hannigrammatic



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Anal Sex, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Tristhad Appreciation Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 16:19:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6527224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannigrammatic/pseuds/Hannigrammatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He finally spots the opening now that he’s close, and he kneels down to frown into the darkness of a bower fashioned from thick branches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flicker

**Author's Note:**

> A fluffsmut story for Tristhad Appreciation Week! This is my first time writing for these two, and for this appreciation week, and I feel so happy to partake!!! ♥
> 
> Not beta read

Galahad’s cheeks are still pink when he staggers from a bush, grumbling at the heavy tree root that nearly trips him --twice. The copious amount of alcohol making its rounds hadn’t skipped the youngest of their party, although at this point he almost wishes it did.

Things are quieting down at the camp now as the moon sits fat in the sky, and the air is chillier than Galahad remembers it being when he’d first left to relieve himself on the outskirts of camp, and he decides that it’s a good as time as any to get some sleep. So he watches his feet as he makes his way over to the sturdy tree that he’s set up his bedroll under, flops onto the ground, and then covers himself toes-to-chin, eyes closed and hair flopping into his face. He’s comfy and drifting hazily into dreamland, aided by the alcohol making his veins feel thick.

“Up,” a voice whispers in his warm ear, and Galahad twitches awake to find Tristan kneeling at the head of his bedroll.

Unruly locks of dark hair, braids and all, hang loose around handsome, bearded features. Dark eyes, underlined with the man’s tribal markings, squint down intently at the young man.

“Trist-”

A heavy hand covers Galahad’s mouth, so large it could easily cover his entire face, he felt. He nearly goes cross-eyed trying to look at the long fingers wrapped across his mouth, and then decides to frown at Tristan’s face with his brows. Tristan is being _rude_.

“Come,” the older man whispers. “Don’t speak.”

The warm weight leaves the younger man’s face, and Galahad makes sure to frown with his mouth now that it’s free. But he untangles himself from his bedroll and follows behind the man who walks like a ghost he’s so quiet. In the cold night air, Galahad shivers and regrets not grabbing his cloak. That matters not, however, when moments later they come to a stop seemingly in a random spot of the forest, not far from the others and yet far enough. Tristan turns to face his companion with his face tilted slightly.

“Climb in,” he commands.

Galahad raises a brow. Is Tristan playing a game? Why at such an hour when they could both be asleep and rested for the new day approaching?

“Tristan, wha-”

“In, Galahad,” large, warm hands settle on shoulders just beginning to tense, and before the young man can complain once more, he’s being ushered into a _bush_. 

Or what looks like one at first. 

He finally spots the opening now that he’s close, and he kneels down to frown into the darkness of a bower fashioned from thick branches. It doesn’t take him too much coaxing to climb in now that he’s made sense of it all, and he’s surprised to find Tristan’s bedroll deep within the natural, earthy room. It’s like a cave in here, but he can still see the starlight through intermittent gaps in the branches, and it’s more spacious than he’d expect. Tristan joins him on hands and knees, nudging him into the bedroll when the younger man continues to sit on his knees marvelling at his surroundings. 

Galahad goes without complaint, wondering faintly if they will both fit in the close space, and of course they do because Tristan covers him with his own body, and then them both with the thin blanket of the roll. 

“You’re impossible,” Galahad mutters. “Can’t just sleep around the fire like everyone else.”

“I can,” Tristan disagrees, breath gusting hotly over his companion’s fuzzy cheek. “I wanted privacy.”

“Oh.”

Galahad feels his face warm at the thought, that the man had sought this place not only for himself, but for them both. He’s still somewhat deterred by his drinking from earlier, and it almost seems as if things are moving slower than usual.

“Are we going to-”

“Yes. Keep quiet, little one.”

“ _I’m not little_.”

“Shhh.”

A single finger presses against Galahad’s lips, and he doesn’t bother playing any games. He flicks his tongue at the warm pad of the digit and tastes salt and flesh. Tristan grunts and pulls his hand away to brace himself above the younger man, and his other one makes quick work of the fastenings of Galahad’s tunic.

“Is there enough space?” The young man whispers breathlessly.

The close quarters make them both hot quickly, so Tristan discards the blanket with a twitch of his shoulder, and then returns to his task. It’s easier than usual, however, because his dear boy has forgone any undergarments, even his loincloth. He smirks up at wide blue eyes and a babyface of roundness despite the coarse hair on his jawline, before he leans close to mouth at a bobbing adam’s apple. Galahad twitches bodily, and then his bony fingers are sneaking under Tristan’s own tunic -or they’re trying, anyway. The bigger man doesn’t leave him with much space or time other than to attempt, because he’s bared his boy finally, and he has to pet along all that pale, soft flesh, feasting on it with eyes and hands and mouth. 

“Ah, Tristan,” the boy gasps.

Tristan doesn’t bother to silence him again, instead returning to his task. He mouths a hard little nipple, rolling his lips along it before pressing down the slightest bit. His hand cups a hip to hold a wriggling body down, and so he can’t cover that sinful mouth anymore. He doesn’t think the others will hear the soft gasps and throaty moans, not from this distance, and they are yet muffled within the bower anyway. Still, he plays with the idea of rutting into Galahad with a hand over his mouth, pressing a thumb deep into the wet depth to chase that naughty tongue.

“Tristan, _please_ ,” Galahad pleads with the prettiest whimper.

“Shall I gag you with a corner of my bedroll?” the older man asks gruffly, mouth pausing in its journey south.

Galahad looks down his own sparsely haired chest to find Tristan looking up at him from the warmth between his legs, beard tickling his stomach and drawing it taut in an instinctive roll of muscles. He shakes his head wordlessly, and dark eyes narrow in the moonlight he’s only now just noticing. With a gasp at the man’s mouth returning to his flesh, he looks up at a circle of sky revealed within the bower, and his thighs twitch and then squeeze tight. 

Tristan’s tongue is rough and hot as it teases the base of his cock, and his mouth is impossibly soft when it encompasses the hardening member. He’s not very big, not that it ever matters, honestly, because between their constant travels and skirmishes with various enemies, it doesn’t get put to much use -and even when he’s had the opportunity in the past, he never pressed it, not until Tristan and only because Tristan pressed it all just fine. It feels so good, either way, to have his nether region’s trapped in that suckling heat, and he squirms beneath the man incessantly.

“Stop,” he moans. “Stop teasing.”

An audible, delightfully naughty _pop_ fills the close air between them when Tristan removes his mouth from the tip of his cock, the head popping out of swollen lips to cool swiftly. He’s not left long to wait before Tristan manhandles him onto his stomach, and Galahad rests his cheek on the stiff pillow of his companion’s bedroll. He wiggles his ass enticingly, not caring if the man behind him can see it, just knowing he can feel it just as Galahad can feel the heavy hotness of Tristan’s cock nudging along the seam of his body. A whispered curse, and then the man frees himself from his britches and loincloth, keeping each layer on despite wanting to press his entire body atop the smaller man’s flesh-to-flesh. That could wait for when they had a proper bed and a proper room with thick walls.

He moves back enough that he can feel a few branches poking into his spine, and then he spits into one large hand and strokes himself into readiness. He wonders if he should open Galahad wide with his fingers again, remembers the sounds he couldn’t hold onto, but he decides not to this time -that could wait, too. They would do this again soon, again and again. He thumbs the slit of his cock and growls in the close air of the bower, and then he’s climbing back over Galahad and guiding himself inside of the other’s quivering, willing body. He nestles deep just as they are nestled deep within this dark, private place, and when he bottoms out he wraps a strong arm around his boy’s neck.

“Move,” the incorrigible youth demands posthaste, not unexpected, and so Tristan _moves_ , and he does it well.

There’s no room to press away or towards the mass of muscle above him. Galahad can merely sigh and moan and take it all, each well-aimed thrust that pierces and prods and rubs the best parts of him. It’s dry at first, and painful enough for a brief gritting of teeth, and then it’s still dry but it feels better than most anything. Galahad longs to sink his teeth into the arm so perilously tight around his neck, and he puffs out a heavy breath when Tristan gives action his thought almost immediately. Blunt teeth drag from Galahad’s ear to his shoulder, and with each thrust they sink just that bit further into the flesh that conjoins there. Tristan’s free hand digs beneath the smaller body and closes around the tip of Galahad’s damp cock to coax him along further.

“Oh, Tristan,” the boy sighs.

_My boy_ , Tristan wants to sigh.

Grunting, they finish together, and they’re both soaked with sweat from their languid coupling. Tristan wipes his fingers of Galahad’s spend on his bedroll, and then he pulls free of the tight depths of his companion’s clenching, still spasming hole. One thumb sinks where his softening cock had just rested snugly, and he feels his own spill decorating the youth’s insides. Deeper and deeper until each knuckle of his thumb disappears, and then he draws it out and runs the mess he brings with him along Galahad’s spine. 

A mark they are both familiar with, because Tristan does it every time they fuck or make love or rut in the woods.

Galahad sighs loudly and nuzzles his cheek against the pillow sleepily. He’s sober now, and as such he’s doubly content after his release. Tristan rumbles appreciatively and then settles atop him once more, a crushing weight that is altogether safe and suffocating. 

“You’ll squish the life out of me,” he mumbles sleepily.

“Shush,” Tristan purrs.

He does, and they drift off to sleep together in the safety of each other and the bower that surrounds them. It’s used to housing warm, live creatures, a den that has embraced many in its time. It continues to do so with these slumbering folk, rustling in a wind that shudders through the forest in the moonlight.


End file.
